So, last month was pretty non-stop action with some quick gasps for air. I unfortunately found zero success in my expected output endeavors, yet I managed to blossom in other manners. I went back to the Midwest to visit my dad's side of the family in the middle of nowhere southern Minnesota. I hadn't been back to the farm in about four years, so it was great seeing all my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all over again. We ate great food, had stoic and reserved conversations that were rude enough for family but polite enough for company, drank beer, shot guns, rode four-wheelers, and blew shit up. Good old fashioned 'merican fun.
I really do love the family farm. I of course couldn't appreciate it when I was a child, spending my summer or winter break visiting my parents. I always managed to have a great time, and viewed the Midwest as a sort of safe haven from my wild and fast Southern Californian daily life. I never had to go to school out there, I pretty much got to do what I want, my dad works at a college, so I got to hang out in the library since classes were always out of session. Though there were a couple instances where I ran into cool Gen X college kids as a teenager, and I was deemed cool strictly by virtue of living in Los Angeles, versus Janesville, WI (home of Speaker of the House, and former Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan. I know where he lives. His neighbors had Obama signs in their yard in 2012). Those trips to my dad's house, and to my grandparent's farm, weren't always the happiest, as I've always been wrathful and sullen in sweeping fits, but I have far more pleasing, or at least funny, memories than a lot of moments back home in the San Fernando Valley. I guess I have a sort of Bob Crosby, "Way Back Home," mentality about it. Living through it wasn't as cool as I remember it, I'm sure, but being there now was the recharge I needed. And here's a bonus dog picture of my grandparent's farm dog Ben.
 |
| "I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!" |
In videogame news, I've mostly been building shit in Fallout 4 with the new DLC stuff. I've built myself a bunch of cool settlements, but that means I now have to venture out into the Commonwealth to scavenge more garbage for building components. I've noticed that my entire point of Fallout 4 is to get every single person to think that I'm the nicest guy ever because I murdered everything around the shell of a former town and built up a bunch of shanties with sleeping bags and mattresses, telling people to sleep in huge communal rooms surrounded by automated laser turrets. And I expect them to be happy on top of that. Really only whatever settlement I choose to live in ever gets any cool decorations. But that's because A) I only have so much time available to pointlessly build virtual things no one is ever going to see besides me, and B) I learned the hard way that when you force the game to load so many random items (that you spent hours carefully manipulating into place to give the illusion of life and function to this environment) it starts crashing all the time.
So, yeah, because my game kept crashing on me, I had to pack up and move from my old, super awesome spot, at Coastal Cottage:
 |
| Can you believe they're just giving these away? |
 |
| I support being in control of the guns. |
 |
| Participant trophies |
 |
| Support your Local Comic Shop. |
 |
| Just like the White House. |
 |
| Open for business. |
 |
| "Come on, The Cheat. We're blasting off to the MOOOOOON!" |
 |
| The Blaire Witch must have been here again. |
So I went back home, built a bunch of fake buildings that wouldn't pass code, and I wrote the beginnings of a couple short stories. I've also started rewatching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and will be posting season recaps. I don't know if I'm going to do them at a whim on this blog or include them in my weekly posts, but rewatching season one, I have to gush and groan about it. So if I make a surprise post before next Sunday, it'll probably be that. I've noticed that every episode has something redeeming in it, which is appropriate with redemption being a running theme of the series. I can't wait to gush on about it.
But this week is reserved for my own works. In the last three days I've gotten out two quick chapters of To Slice The Sky. Draft two of chapters 12 and 13 are complete, and They're coming up right after this dog picture.
C:\>12_Ass/Gas/Grass
Failed wiring didn't keep ‘The C an Sheet
Ho el’ sign from being a neon beacon in the Wastes night.
"And heeeeeeere we are," Decker
navigated from between the front seats.
Sweeps sacrificed the last bit of his
battery and checked the GPS.
"Dude, you're reading old maps. I-76
is that pile of slag behind us. Akron don' live he’e no mo'." Decker gave
Sweeps a pat on the shoulder, "Just pull in wherever," he said to
Worthington in the driver's seat.
It smelled like seven people riding in a
van for seven hours. Decker busied himself with his bag, checking his
possessions for the third time in the last half hour. In the back, Breaker
fiddled with his phone, Fixer and Brawl17 dozed on each other, while Manner sat
against the loading doors with her sword across her lap. She was blank faced,
polishing the blade, staring out the windshield as The Clean Sheets Hotel's dirt parking lot came into view.
Manner switched her gaze to Decker, nervously
digging through his bag. He slumped in defeat, clothes
half-spilling/half-jammed from the main opening. His shorts cargo pocket buzzed.
Nothing to wear?
"How'd you guess?" Decker’s smirk
was lit by his clone phone screen.
Manner shrugged and mimicked Decker’s look.
She tapped her forehead while patting her ovaries.
"Yeah, good detective work."
What's up with
this place?
"I stayed here on my way to OC,"
Decker said.
"Stayed where? The Wastes?"
Brawl17 said with his eyes closed, head rested against the clean interior.
Fixer's head, bounced on Brawl17’s arm with the broken road. Brawl17 snuck a
peak out the window, "What a slagpit."
"Yeah, hitchhiked out to here, long
story." Decker said to Worthington, who put the van in park, “Hey, let me
get out first. You dudes wait in the van."
"I thought you said it was safe,"
Breaker looked up from a rousing game of Bejewled.
"It is, just, you know, there's a way
to these things. Be cool and follow my lead, alright?” Decker unlatched the
side door, "They love me here," he hopped into the dirt, "'ll text
you when I need you. Deuces." Decker flashed a peace sign, and zipped up his
shell jacket against the Lake Eerie winds.
"It's not just me, he's weird,
right?" Worthington said. Brawl17 and Fixer looked at each other and
shrugged as Manner closed the sliding door. Decker vanished into the brick
façade's shadow.
The
Clean Sheets stood as a safe haven for sin in the middle of nowhere. Surrounding
the parking lot gravel was a scorched Civil War aftermath the people of New
America called The Wastes. Decker walked around the front, shivering and
exhaling condensation. He entered the old fashioned double doors.
The lobby still reeked of ages of human
vice mingled with chemical air freshener. Maid drones whirred about, keeping
the shabby interior clean. Behind the front desk sat an egg-man in a ten-gallon
hat.
"Decker,” He laughed with zero volume
control in a Midwestern/Russian accent. “My 'Mysterious Wanderer from the West.'
How's yer ass been, man? I tell you buddy, we missed you these last few months.
Where’s big lug that you came with last time? Whatever. Are those bronze
backside beauties of yours going to glisten here tonight?"
"Sacred skag Troy, you could talk a
person to deaf—“
"Come into my office. We talk about
how you big shot in Ocean City да? Not out here, there's people coming man. Fragging
big shots with titties out to here man," Troy pantomimed a ridiculous
handful in front of his own large breasts. "Fraggin wouldn’t believe it.
Come, we talk. You looking for love, maybe? I cut you deal. Oh Decker, you shake
an ass you make me fragging big money, you betcha."
Troy's office consisted of a wall of
smartpaper sheets linked into a closed circuit network. Every room in the
parlor was on display at an awkward above the bed angle that flattered no one.
Bubble and floating nanocameras made up the rest of the security. Decker leaned
against the door and started in before Troy had gotten into his seat.
"So while I dig that our deal stands,
and I'll totally shake it tonight for your big shot titty women–"
"–Out to here, man." Troy made
the invisible cups again, switching his baggy eyes from his hands to Decker's
face.
Decker steamrolled on, "I've got a
friend that needs a place to crash with me."
"Friend? Like big lug? Or someone
jealous at you making some creds on the side?" Troy adjusted his posture into
a less relaxed pose.
"No, not that kind at all, let me
bring him in," Decker pressed send on his clone phone.
"What kind of fragging yokel phone is
that?"
"Something I've been working on,
Comrade. Ties in with my friends."
"Friends? With extra 'S' for plural, friends?"
With that, Breaker burst in through the
door followed by Sweeps and Fixer.
Decker made a welcoming gesture.
"Yeah, friends. Here's some of us."
"There's more?" Troy slapped the
side of his face.
"Yeah, a few." Sweeps said.
"What is up with this, Decker? Вы
пытаетесь меня дерьмо, чувак?" Troy fingered the carved clone ivory handle
of his revolver.
"What? Why would I be selling you
bulltaco, dude?"
"Because you little man with big
balls. Because you bring obvious clones to my business I build from ground up in
this great country. Clones bad for business. I hear on news, I surf net, I'm
fragging wired, мудак. Get your
fragging copypaste friends out of my fragging face." Troy punctuated the
sentence with his gun's cocked hammer under Decker's smirk. Troy’s eyes were all
dilated pupil.
"Whoa,
whoa, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Sweeps stuck his hand between the
two men, “Hi, my name's,–" and got a face full of revolver muzzle for the
trouble.
"No, 'friend' with no 's', you got off
on limprick foot. You sound like little limprick with no balls. Come on,
clone," Troy spat on the burnt orange shag carpet, "show me your
balls."
"Is he serious?" Sweeps checked
Decker, who'd yet to drop either the eye contact or smirk.
"Yes, I'm fragging serious идиот. I'm
shoving a gun in your fragging дурак face, don't you know?" Troy was all sweat
and bulging veins. He took a step back aimed at Sweep's crotch. "Now, show
me your balls or we have to clone you a new pair."
"Just show him your balls, Sweeps. You
don't have to fly bird," Decker said. "So if you say idiot with an
accent it's idiot in Russian?"
"Bird too, because идиот slicer cannot
keep trap shut. I count to 3 and balls show, or balls go."
"Okay, bud, okay, chill the frag
out." Sweeps wriggled out of his coveralls, "Here." His genitals
were safe from destruction another day as a madman dressed as a pimp oil tycoon
burst into laughter. While Sweeps felt uncomfortable at Troy's prolonged,
boisterous, laugh, it ratcheted up when he dropped an arm around Decker and
Sweeps' necks.
"With a wanger like that, you’ll be great for the fetish
show. These women love that clone man, drives them wild. You dance tonight, be
my strange, and you get room. Decker's sweet cheeks are already mine.” Troy
slapped Decker’s bronze beauties, “You? You get deal. Got other clones out
there? They hot? Good buns? Hot titties? Huge wangers? We go Full Monty for
special clients. Then they tell friends I have best бордель in all Wastes, and
I get money. Frag those Native
Casinos. I give what the people want, man. You make me rich tonight and I make
you safe, clone guy."
"Can I dance?" The Twins said.
"What? No. I have one big wanger
clone, no need for twin act. Frag off with other clones. Get out of sight or
buy night from girls. I don't like you, get out of my face." Troy waved
them off with his gun.
"Troy, have you thought of not having
a gun on you at all times?" Decker said.
"It's my right, dadfragger. I live in
Wastes, I make own land. Fragging reds come in and tell me this burnt piece of
slag belong to them. Frag that. I built this pit up with my own fragging
hands."
"I thought you said you bought it from
a–"
"–I bought it from the blood money I
get from killing your stupid face if slicer don't shut yap. Now get to make-up.
I want your balls and ass to shine. Tell the boys to make room for Mysterious
Stranger and Sexy Custodian."
"What the frag happened back
there?" Sweeps, used to his life being threatened on a whim, was stunned
by Troy’s different kind of guvvy crazy. "How did I end up typecast in a
male revue?"
"I'm certain it's a trimethyl
something or another. Whatever these psychos cook in their bathtubs out here.
Dude, Wastes people are, like, nuts.
Just don't make eye contact with anyone that has visible scars and you're cool."
Decker tapped Sweeps with a playful fist, "Let's get to wardrobe. Fix,
Break, get the team."
"Awe, I want to be a dancer," said
Breaker.
"Sorry duder." Decker put his
palms out, "Troy’s cool and all, but it's a tight ship and someone has to
wave a gun at it. Just drop some creds on a 2031 Svedka for the two of you.
He'll offer a dance at the least from anyone who passes by."
"Wow, that sounds like an amazing way
to spend some creds." Fixer deadpanned.
"When it keeps you from needing bullet
removal surgery, yeah, I suppose it is." Decker shot a look back to Fixer,
"A drunk Russian is a lot easier to handle than a tweeking one."
"Is Troy out of his dadfragging
mind?" The waif exhaled in a burst of smoke beneath pink wavy hair.
Writhing, almost-dressed bodies shared the narrow dressing space. The air was filled
with noise, body heat and smoke.
"From what I can tell," Sweeps
shrugged.
"I wouldn't let him hear you say that.
I assume you saw the office. He's watching," A tanned and toned man, half
dressed in a snap together costume, did squats.
"And listening; he loves our
gossip," Came from a dark skinned woman. Her high conical breasts were
tipped with black electrical tape.
"Look, don't worry about a thing,"
Decker started.
"You keep saying not to worry and that
makes me worry more," Sweeps’ forehead beaded with sweat. "You seem
more nervous than any of us."
The pink haired waif daintily puffed off
their smoke, "Oh, Deckie, are you getting performance anxiety? You want a
Xoddy bar? I tell you, once this boy relaxes, he can get like three, four
fin–"
"–yeah, I'll take a Xodine,"
Decker said, extending his palm, Babs shook a pill into it. His mods generated
extra saliva for an easy dry swallow. "Thank you, Babs."
Babs took a look at the bottle in her hand.
"Oh, skag, Mitchell, what's this green bottle with the fliptop?"
"It's pronounced Me-shell, like the
song, Barbara." Michelle powdered their implant scars with concealer.
"Your tits are always going to look
lopsided and fake, Mitchell," Babs chucked the easy open prescription
bottle at Michelle's chest.
They fumbled with it and read the script.
"You swallowed a whole one of these?"
Sweeps facepalmed, "A whole one of
what?"
The dancers tittered behind their hands.
"So are you guys going to tell me what
I swallowed or do I have to wait for it to break down and have an app tell
me?" Decker undressed since everyone else was.
"Oh you'll be fine. How we're going to
teach you both the routine in half an hour is the real trouble," A catty
fireman with suspenders over their tits checked his stubble on the far side of
the mirror.
"Frag the routine, you're not going
out on stage dressed like nomads," Babs went to the closet and emerged
with arms full of clothing, "Here you two, put these on. They'll make you
feel less, vulnerable."
”Will someone help shine up my fragging
balls already?" Sweeps dropped his pants.
Decker sank into the loving care of his
fellow burlesquers and a warm chemical fuzz. Planet Earth seemed a party he was
enjoying from the inside out, going with the flow of his mods jerking his body
about in a fluid series of movements. Decker observed time happen to whatever
womblike pocket his body inhabited. An out of order jigsaw puzzle fell into
place as his carbon muscle and skin weaves kept him from melting into an ecstatic
puddle.
Troy burst in wearing a gold suit that a
Church of Eternal Elvis member would wear to a swinger convention. Overworked
as it was keeping his guts and gears inside, his skin twitched from repeat stim
use. All shades of temptrait and DeMo users lined up for final inspection.
Troy walked the line, checking his money
makers, "Oh да, you dadfragging
hot pieces of ass. The titties on these big shots are fragging incredible
man." He shook cheap cigar ash onto the floor with his breast cupping
gesture. "So you go out there, you shake some ass, you do your little ball
dance," he gyrated front and back as much as the space would allow,
"all that skag, да? Come on you stimmed up fraggers, get out there, show
your fragging balls and make it sexy. Sexy enough that they want them banging
in their face when you give them frag of life upstairs. You do that, I tell you
what man, you still get a fragging job tomorrow, да? да." Troy's glazed
over pupils met everyone else's. He made a windmill motion with his arm ending
in a double point towards the stage, "Get out there, bitches, make it look
good."
*
If someone fed Decker from their cakehole
last night, his mouth tasted like it. Water lay on the other side of John and
his executive trimmed straight black hair. Finding his graybox scrubbed of last
night's event files—now property of The
Clean Sheets Hotel LLC—Decker was sore that he missed his first lay since
too long. Psychedelic imagery flashed in his actual memory. Mental scenery that
alluded to things in bursts of impressionist smears were all the he had to
piece together his night. Glad for being the little spoon, Decker collected his
clothes and made a silent escape.
It was early enough that everyone was either
asleep or winding down from the night. No one was in the resident showers.
Decker sat under the desert baked hot water, washing away the road, make-up,
body fluids and chemical compounds. He skimmed the last couple days missed mail
contemplating the benefits of spending shower time for SPAM versus solving
abstract situations. He dumped the Junk folder, slapping his cheeks to stay
conscious. Nothing he read gave the group a direction to move beyond, 'away'.
Minutes later, lightly dozing, his generic
ringtone rattled him back to consciousness. A 973 origin public phone call
which meant Clonetown and insecure. Decker answered without thinking of the
consequences and was greeted with transmission static rumbling his inner ear.
"Decker?" *static*
"Who is this?"
"Frag*static*o glad to -ear*buzz*."
“Dude, why are you on a public terminal?
Didn’t I teach you better than that?”
“I’m in Clonetown, trying to find you.
Everything is nuts here, man, and we gotta blow.”
"We're not in town anymore, I'm not
sure I can give up where we're at over a pay phone line if things are getting
dicey."
"What the frag *static*?”
Decker heard nothing but interference on
the line as he barked Trip’s name.
There was a slight pause in the static,
"Suits normally don't wander through Clonetown, do they?"
"Not unless they're looking for
trouble."
"I'm in trouble."
"Stay calm, dude. Hopefully RoPhar
still needs you alive."
"RoPhar wears much cheaper," the
sounds of muffled struggling and static painted voices filled Decker’s head.
"We just have to ho–" Click. A
dial tone rattled Decker's tympanic membrane, "–ld, on? Trip? Frag!" Decker whipped a haymaker
into the tile wall. Blood trickled from a fist sized dent. Decker's med app
warned of trauma to his left wrist, and to remain calm as treatment was
applied.
Babs clucked her tongue at Decker,
"You're wasting all our hot water, baby."
"Sorry," He shut off the tap.
"Rough night? Your John a little
tightwound?" Babs draped a towel from the rack around Decker, "It's
okay, tell Babs what's wrong." She put her arm around his shoulders for
comfort.
"No, nothing like that. I've…"
all the pieces in Decker's head clicked into place, "I've gotta save
Trip."
*
It took about an hour of crowdsourcing info
on the clone net to get a witness that recognized Trip from the morning rush.
Apparently a six-three guvvy sticks out just enough for no one to see them. It
took another to load the crew into the van.
"We gotta move, people. Move–move-move."
He hustled everyone into the van.
Breaker continued his morning long
resistance, "Don't you want to say goodbye or anything? The sun's barely
up. I forgot something in the room."
Brawl17 pulled Breaker back in the van,
"Come on buddy. I know what it's like. I remember my first time like it
was yesterday—“
Breaker took a seat, "–It wasn't my
fir–"
"–Funny. I can barely remember
yesterday's. Or was that this mornings?” Brawl17 chuckled to himself, “Ah, who’s
counting anyway?"
Breaker shuffled anxious feet in front of
himself. Brawl17 coughed his gravel mixer guffaw, and took a seat next to
Breaker.
"You're okay, kid." He punctuated
with a slap on the back.
Worthington slid into the driver's seat,
checking her hasty makeup in the vanity mirror. Decker rode shotgun, firing up his
cartography app. Fixer searched for a radio station from between the seats. Decker
directed Worthington to head away from the sun.
"What am I supposed to do when the sun
moves?” A sleep deprived driver snapped at the vague directions.
"Drive towards it.” Decker beamed his
map onto the windshield, “Metro City, here we come.”
C:\>13_Metro_City_Death_Trip
"Go ahead and take it off."
Trip's first view since being hooded was
quite different from when it was placed. Air rushed in from the open cargo
door. Four expensive suits occupied seats beside and across from him. No one
had a visible firearm, which took the edge off the intensely awk situation.
But, from the car ride in Clonetown to the current helicopter ride straight
outta Ocean City, there wasn’t a personnel change, so one of these prickpuffers
were responsible for the sharp throb in his scalp. A spit soaked gag between
Trip's teeth rendered his tongue useless. All words like, 'Can you get this
thing out of my mouth and untie me?' and, 'Please don't kill me. I really,
really, really don't want to die," were lost in translation.
Like the sun rising on the wrong side, cold
blue and yellow light pollution made for an exquisite view as a lopsided artist
pallet outline rolled closer. A dartboard crisscross of freeways and train
lines glowed as the spokes, each section wedging in a shadowy illuminated city
district. Jutting from the bullseye, on level with the open door, was a red and
blue neon double-helix; Gene Works Inc.’s response to Roplaxive’s
overcompensating HQ tower. Memories of an early morning layover and frustrating
connecting flight through O’Hare Memorial frolicked in Trip’s memory. The
Spiral looked much more impressive at night.
His security assistant to the left, a business
blonde in a fashionable two-tone pantsuit, removed his bonds. Trip mumbled out
a hasty thanks.
The helicopter pilot spoke into their headset,
"Metro Air Traffic, GWIAT 0-1337-5H approaching Spoke6 Doubles, requesting
permission to land at Home Base."
A super kawaii voice came through the
speakers, "Permission granted, GWIAT 0-1337-5H. Proceed seventy-seven
point seventeen klicks due west to your destination. Expect mild air currents
and clear skies. Scans indicate our guest of honor is with you. We're pleased
to have you in Metro City, Mr. Dawson." You could almost feel the ^_^.
Trip blushed, "Awe, gee, thanks."
"Future Park, here we come," The
Pilot said with no change in direction.
Trip went back to looking out the door as
insect-like cars and railways scuttled about the main roads.
"Enjoying the view?" Checkers
asked.
"Looks like a big ole target,"
Trip deadpanned.
They touched down on an outcropping in the
middle of the red helix. Trip duckwalked out of the helicopter in between his
entourage. He thought about making a break for it then realized how well it
worked out last time he tried that move when he wasn’t half a kilometer in the
sky.
Checkers said, "Come now, Mr. Dawson,
it's time for your interview. Follow me." She didn't break stride, nodding
her head in the direction she was headed.
Trip tried to keep up, "Interview?
What interview? I'm not even… hey, just wait a tick, will ya? Dude, like,"
he dropped into paralanguage for a moment, trying to catch up, "I have
nothing to wear."
They arrived as the slanted elevator dinged
open. Checkers breezed, "It's alright, Mr. Dawson, everything is going to
be fine. Gene Works understands. We rescued you, remember."
"Rescue? One of you limpr—uh,
guys—pistol whipped me. Why am I being interviewed?" Trip followed into
the elevator. “I wasn’t even job hunting.”
"Might want to tighten up the profesh
speak there, champ," They stood side by side with the rest of the group
filling in the cramped space. Checkers signaled the appropriate floor, "We
want you here. This is more a formality than anything." The elevator accelerated
up the twisting structure.
Trip scoffed, "I normally don't get
whisked away to The Central City against my will. And before I forget, it’s
really creepy when only one of you speaks. Just sayin’."
"I was to understand that you had fled
your former employer's corporate government because you didn't want to engage
in forced labor." Checkers smirked to herself, "We're avoiding that,
but your safety was a concern while in Ocean City due to," she started a
word but changed it to, “technical difficulties.”
"Good thing Gene Works is so concerned
about safety. I bet office parties are a blast."
"I wouldn't know," The elevator
doors slid open onto a smoothed gray antechamber. Trip stood with his gob hung
open. Checkers gestured within, “Go on.” Trip exited, noticing a lack of
clacking heels on marble behind him. He hesitated for a moment which brought
an, "It's okay."
The elevator doors closed, taking Checkers and
the rest of his abductors out of his life forever.
Trip opened the door on a row of shadowed
angular faces under hard lighting. The room had the feeling of a cartoon
courthouse that only handed out death penalties. Silence was tangible yet
fragile as someone spoke.
"Welcome, Mr. Dawson. Or do you prefer
Trevor?" The Woman left of center began.
"Please, come in, sit down,"
offered The Man next to her.
The offered seat was alone in the center of
the room. It was a comfortable enough seat, which only made Trip even more nervous
in its cushions.
"Uh, Trevor is fine," He
attempted eye contact with the underbrow shadows on four faces, "It really
is a pleasure and all, but forgive me if I'm a little nervous. You see–"
The first speaker broke in, "–Thanks in
part to some, fortunate breaks, we began tracking you as soon as your
biosignature left Roplaxive corporate housing."
The outer left interviewer spoke next,
"We understand your situation has been trying." They leaned forward, smiling
without emotion, "We assure you, there is nothing to fear while you are in
Gene Works Incorporated's care."
"Yeah," Trip said, his throat
drying, "uh," he cleared his throat, "so…" he sat there,
shuffling his feet, trying to make any meaningful sound.
The first speaker said, "Let us begin.
My name is Miriam Jaber-Ansari, Head of Organics here at Gene Works. In other words,
the Gene portion of it. I am here with my cell leads because we have a personal
interest in the work you recently performed with Roplaxive. Work adapted from
our raided R&D department files."
"Let me just say what I was too
hungover and forced at gunpoint to say to the trio back in Ocean City. I don't
want to make techno-organic combat slaves."
"Trevor, you misunderstand our
position," Miriam said. "Gene Works is not a company like Roplaxive.
We seek to unlock the secret of combining man and machine from birth. We don't
want to control humankind; we want to evolve us."
"Then you're talking to the absolute
wrong person,” Trip shifted in his seat, sweating into his cheap jacket. Good
riddance to the hat.
“But you studied Genetic Pharmacology with
a secondary focus in Neurochemistry?”
“And the temptraits you built during
Pharmacology school were, well, inspiring.”
Trip shook his head, “Genetics fascinate
me, sure, but I like humanity just the way we are. I'm opposed to altering the
genetic structure. When people talk about playing God, this is what they’re
talking about.”
The shadow on the far right sucked air
through their teeth, "That's going to be a problem?"
Trip tried to make the awkward pause as
brief as possible, "I’d like to think that in a sane population that’s a
problem."
Miriam said, "So you're opposed to
genetic researching?"
Trip fidgeted, "Uh, not normally. This
is coming out all wrong. Why do you guys want me to work for you? I'm not that
special."
"Don't sell yourself short, Trevor."
Miriam looked at a sheet of smartpaper, flicking the display a couple times,
"Gene Works is committed to making you a well-paid and well respected
individual with the leading Biotechnology company in the world. All we want is
you, and your work on whatever they've been calling our BioTeks."
"Biodroids?" Trip said.
"Beg your pardon?" The Far Right
said.
"Oh, um. They call them
Biodroids," Trip repeated.
"What kind of stupid name is
Biodroid?" said the opposite side.
"That's what I said."
Miriam began again, "Regardless, we are
extending a once in a life time opportunity. We are asking if you will join our
team to make the world a better place."
Trip shrugged, "I didn’t want to be a
mad scientist for Roplaxive either."
Miriam put on her Ms. Jaber-Ansari voice,
"Let us make this plainer then. You are in our custody. We found you in the
middle of a directional dead zone with zero difficulty. What makes you think
you're not still being forced at gunpoint to do mad science?"
Trip started an, 'uh', that was cut short
by two wrap neck suited guards stepping from the corner shadows to flank his
chair.
The Man next to Miriam laid his hands flat
on the desk and leaned into the light, "One last time, Mr. Dawson. Are you
going to willingly work for Gene Works?"
"Do you guys have a nootropics
department?" Trip gulped.
Jaber-Ansari waved him off, "We're
through here. Take him away."
Trip was grabbed by both armpits out of the
chair and deadweight carried back to the elevator. No matter what he shouted
they wouldn’t stop or let him go.
No comments:
Post a Comment